


those days when he was young and his spirit was bright as the sun

by AudreyXuan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Death, Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AudreyXuan/pseuds/AudreyXuan
Summary: Catelyn remembers her losses and comes to terms with the fact that there is only one god–Death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Made using aSoIaF fic generator: character + character + five random words
> 
> catelyn stark + robb stark + ( argue / full / play / page / press )

         What she would give to have him back. She’d cut her shredded throat again and break her hollow bones. She’d slice her paper skin into pretty red ribbons just to see him play once more at swords with his brothers, in the halls of Winterfell, even splashing in the black pool in the godswood when he was supposed to be praying. She’d stab the black heart of the black bastard boy a hundred times over if she could just comb his auburn curls, listen to his sweet voice as he argued that he was nearly a grown man and he didn’t need his mother to comb his hair. Oh, how she loved his hair. He was the only one in the family, the _true_ family, with curls, lazy reddish-brown locks that stood out against Stark grey and Tully blue both. Throughout the Seven Kingdoms there were raven-haired Martells and Baratheons with coarse coal mops, lion Lannisters with golden manes and the Targaryens with tresses of spun silver and gold. Robb was one of a kind. _One,_ she thought. _One, and dead._

         She buried her head into his hair and grabbed his wrists from behind, firm enough to leave bruises where her fingers had been. She dug her nails into his pale skin until he cried out. _This is no bastard,_ she told herself. _This is your son._ _I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

_Dark wings, dark words_ held true as the raven came in announcing Ned’s death. _My dear husband, and the gods stole him from me._ She pressed her body close to her son’s, wishing for human contact, knowing that she would never again sleep next to her husband, feel his warmth as a chill ran through the castle. She would not wine and dine with him on his nameday, she would never again kneel under the weirwood pretending to pray just so she could see him, in his beauty, bathed in the light of the full moon. She would never watch him teaching Rickon how to fight with sword and shield as he did with his elder boys and even Arya. She would not see him sit beside Robb at his wedding table, and she would never listen to him telling stories to his Robb’s children. _She would not, she would not, she would not._ There were she would nots and not enough she woulds. _The gods didn’t steal him. The Lannisters did._

 

         There were too many lions and far too many dead wolves. Her body broke with her words and her spirit back at the Twins, and she was now done reading an old book with too many blank pages. Again and again she would open the book and expect a different ending, but it was so plain in front of her that she could not see. The ending was written a hundred years before, before the wedding, before the war. The books of life told her her plan, Ned’s, Robb’s. She was too blind to read it, as she had lived her entire life believing the gods wrote her destiny in the stars, and it was her family, her husband, her son, who had paid. The books were written, she realised, a day and a century too late, by the only god that really had ever looked out for her. _Death._


End file.
